


Unstitch my mouth so I can tell you I love you.

by ItsFinnley666 (RavenDeliahJones)



Series: Afraid of Monsters & Cry of Fear One Shots [6]
Category: Afraid of Monsters & Cry of Fear
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Drug Use, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenDeliahJones/pseuds/ItsFinnley666
Summary: It all started when he woke up - again. He'd been drifting in and out for days on days until finally, he stayed in a state of somewhat consciousness that could be considered awake, and he'd never felt worse.---Normally, David can never remember, but this time, things may be too out of hand for his control.





	1. Chapter One

It all started when he woke up - again. He'd been drifting in and out for days on days until finally, he stayed in a state of somewhat consciousness that could be considered awake, and he'd never felt worse. His body ached in a way he never thought it could, throbbing that was dull, but shook him to the core. He felt violently ill, he dry heaved for a second or two before swallowing uncomfortably. The lights hurt his eyes, his head felt like a pile of bricks had crushed him. His throat was dry and scratchy, but he could remember nothing.

Apparently, he was in a hospital. Everything was white, and it hurt his mind, but then again, what part of him didn't hurt. He couldn't speak, certainly couldn't bear to listen to whatever the man in the white coat towering over him had to say. Fuck him, he thought, he just needed a smoke. There was also another... Clawing feeling at the back of his mind. Something he couldn't quite place his finger on. It felt like something was missing, it made him anxious, and sort of... Hysterical. His hands were cold and clammy as he gripped the sheets, his mind drifting in and out, hearing fuzzy like someone had shoved cotton in his ears. The man talked and talked, with no signs of stopping or pausing for breath. It made his mind race. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he lifted a hand, a signal - or moreso, a plea, to stop. The man in white, presumably a doctor, stopped, nodding firmly with pursed lips, and left without another word. He just needed some time to think, recollect his thoughts. He ran his hands over his face and his muscles felt stiff, almost as if he hadn't moved in many weeks. He supposed he'd been comatose for a while. The callused tips of his fingers touch his face, colliding with stubble and sweat slicked skin. His fingertips find a scar, about an inch in diameter along the skin under his left eye socket. He traced the dipped skin, over and over like a wordless mantra. It was oddly smooth, straight cut and painless. He was mesmerized by the intrusion on his face, and attempted to stand to find a mirror, or something he could look into the see the state of his face. His knuckles whiten as he griped the railing on the side of his bed, his knees weak and trembling. His body shook tremendously as it struggled to accommodate his weight, he grunts as he leans on the wall to inch his way towards the dresser only a few meters away. He had just managed to shuffle his way over to inspect the split in his skin, when the door opened.

 

Before he could process it, he was ushered back into bed by two more men in white. He tensed up, thrashing around as they held him down. An intense pain shot through his veins and he suddenly felt tired, it's so painful he stops moving, breathing heavily as hot tears streamed down his face. The doctor enters the room, voice cool and calm as he utters something unheard. He grabs the gist of it though, don't move or the pain will get worse. He's sobbing and shaking as the tremors rack his body, and he can no longer control himself. He vomits through the sudden wash of nausea, it's just bile that burn the back of his throat. The pain, which he now recognises had stemmed from his stomach outward, lessened, and he whimpered as the fluids soaked his clothes - if you could call them that. His hospital gown sticks to his torso as he's moved out of the room, eyes drooping closed. The prick of the needle was but a momentary pain, but the results were almost instant. He loses consciousness as if with the snap of fingers.

Everything after that was a blur, a flash of lights as he's moved like cargo down the halls, he remembers waking up several times but nothing much stuck.

He wakes once more in a new white room, two grey doors being the only things adorning the walls. His vision was fuzzy as he faded in and out until the lights dimmed, and all was dark.


	2. Chapter Two

It all started when he woke up - again. He’d been drifting in and out for days on days until finally, he stayed in a state of somewhat consciousness that could be considered awake, and he’d never felt worse. 

“David”

The lights flicker as a figure appears in front of him, and David sobs, shaking his head and tugging at his hair. The person in front of him smiles wickedly, letting his arm fall so that the axe he carried cracked the tiles it landed on. David splutters as he stares into the black pits of the other’s eyes. “David.” He sings, tauntingly as he chuckles, head twitching inhumanely. David falls to his knees, covering his head with his arms as he wailed. The man - no - a closer look at the greying skin, tar black holes baring into his skull that oozed a liquid unknown, the smell of decay that knocked him sick… The noose. This man was no stranger, he was an imposter, the parts of David that ate away at his sanity in exchange for keeping him content. He flinches as the metal blade of the axe is scraped along the ground as the man lifts it once more. “Wake up, David.” A head splitting pain fills David’s mind as the axe is brought down, and all he can do is scream.

A hand closes around his arm as he thrashes, eyes snapping open as his own voice fills his ears, lungs burning and stomach weak as he rolls over to vomit.

“David, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” The doctor rubs soothing circles into the space between David’s shoulder blades. David’s body shook as he cried, clawing at the sheets as he slowly recovered from his nightmare. The voice spoke calmly, unknowing of the horrors David had witnessed just moments before. His voice breaks as he attempts to speak, as if the doppelgänger still had a grip on him. “David, you’re alright, you’re safe.” Fresh tears streamed down his face, the doctor squeezed David’s shoulder. “When you’re ready, make your way outside, okay?” The man in white leaves, and David notices fresh set of clothes on the edge of his bed. He shudders as he recalls the dried vomit on his gown, and sheds it immediately. Eagerly, he dons the new clothes, not being too keen on wearing only a hospital gown. His body ached as he moved, muscles stiff and refusing to function. He felt lightheaded and nauseous despite having an empty stomach. David stands, feeling the blood go to his head as his vision momentarily blurs. He staggers out of the door, tiles cooling his feet as he went. When he stepped out, the doctor greeted him with a smile and offered him his arm, adamantly, David stumbled forward, determined to make his own way. His legs buckled and he swayed unceremoniously before collapsing against the wall. The doctor frantically strode over to the man, slinging an arm over his shoulder and hauling him up. He takes the majority of David’s weight and guides him down the corridors, the many doors framing the walls, the twists and turns that made his stomach churn, every new ward that looked the same - the surplus of hallways that never seemed to end nor differ from each other; the waning patients. Something wasn’t right. The doctor pulls him into his office and sits him down carefully, but with a force David is too weak to overpower. He makes his way behind the desk and relaxes into the plush leather chair. He sets his hands clasped down on the table and stares at David intently. All was quiet except for the incessant droning of the ceiling fan, and the doctor took a long breath. “Okay, David. Let’s start simple.” He pauses, making sure David was listening. “I know you can’t remember much, but about a week ago, some paramedics found you passed out in a hospital bathroom…” His brow furrowed, lines appearing on his aged forehead as he gesticulated for a few seconds before looking solemnly at him once more. “Tests ran on you showed our suspicions . You had overdosed on painkillers, so right now, you’re in rehabilitation under court orders.” He lets this sink in, David licks his lips nervously. He nods and all of a sudden, he’s shaking. “You’re very lucky, David. Your heart stopped for four minutes.” David swallows hard, picking at his fingers. All he could remember was blacking out - a horrible nightmare that felt all too real, and then… Everything was fuzzy.

“It’s not all bad though, we pumped your stomach and removed the toxins. Although I’m afraid… Things will only be more difficult from this point on.” The doctor’s face straightened, staring at David with soft, sympathetic eyes. “But let’s worry about that later. Right now, we should start with the basics. This hospital isn’t that bad, you know? You have your own room, there’s a courtyard and a commons room where, eventually, you can bring family in.” He stopped, questioning, “Do you have any family, David?”

“No, sir.” He replies earnestly, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor. The man in white nodded understandingly, “Well, maybe you’ll make some friends while you’re here.” He changed the subject, as not to pry into matters later to be discussed. David shakes his head. “I doubt it, sir. I barely know myself without the high.” His voice breaks, and he blinks away the burning in his eyes. He felt unbelievably cold, but his skin was hot to the touch, it almost felt like bugs were crawling under his flesh. The doctor nods grimly,

“Let’s leave it at this for now, you know where I am if you need me.” He leans over to his desk drawer and pulls out a plastic wallet of papers, handing them to David. “I recommend you have a look around, it’s really not so bad.” His voice is smooth and gentle, DAvid nods curtly as a response, shakily standing up and clutching the papers to his chest. “I’ll see you soon David.”

David doesn’t answer. He walks out and shuts the door behind him, leaning against the wall in silent despair.

“Fuck.” He sighs, rubbing his face with the tips of his fingers. His eyes burn and he sniffs, deciding to go back to his room so he can mull over it. The pack of papers contained a map, marked in red ink with his room, the canteen, courtyard and commons room. He heads back down the winding corridors to his room, head spinning with how similar everything looked. Inside his room; 45, was a box carefully placed on his bed. He raised a brow and set down the papers to inspect it. Inside the box was some basic items, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, a flannel and a change of clothes. A towel and a clock lay at the bottom. ‘The door must be a bathroom’ he thinks to himself. David sat on his bed and opened the paper packet. Several sheets lay inside, a letter of some kind with a form attached, the map, a timetable and a pen. David read through the letter, rolling his eyes. Whoever wrote this made this place sound like a hotel rather than a rehab. His eyes scanned the form, clicking the pen absentmindedly and mumbling out the questions to himself.

“Confirm the following data: Name - David Leatherhoff. Date of birth - 11/7/92. Age - ” David lets out a brief chuckle, rolling his eyes before writing the figure down. “Place of residence - ” He paused.

Before he woke up here, he’d been kicked out of his apartment for not paying rent, he’d been living in his car for the last three months prior. Hell, he hadn’t even touched a bed until he was in intensive care for a fucking drug overdose.

He scribbled down a hasty 'N/A’.

“Any immediate family?”

David hesitated.

'N/A’

David fills out the rest of the form without incident and sighs, setting the papers on the table next to him. He puts a hand to his forehead and settles that arm on his knees, deep in thought. He closes his eyes, the room silent except for his raspy breathing. When he opens his eyes again, the timetable catches his attention. He looks at the time, and then the paper. It was half five in the afternoon, meaning it was dinner. David’s stomach constricts at the thought of food, his skin prickles with heat and he rushes to the bathroom to dry heave. He rinses his mouth with water, and lies down, rubbing his face weakly. This was going to be a difficult experience.


	3. Chapter Three

The ceiling fan creaked and whirred incessantly as the doctor assessed the paperwork of the fidgeting man in front of him.

"How have you been, David?"

David shrugs, biting the tips of his fingers from the hand that was propping up his head.

"I've been better..." He keeps his gaze strictly on the ground, the doctor hums in confirmation. Things slowly quietened until only the shuffling of paper could be heard. It irritated David. He grinds his teeth absentmindedly, his fingers numb and trickling with blood.

"David?"

He snaps back out of his daze to feel his eyes burning from not blinking, the sour taste of blood on his lips. "I've been thinking... Something that may get you settled in here." David raised a brow, he'd been here for a week, and things hadn't been going well. It could almost be described as damn right difficult. The layout of the building was almost impossible to navigate and he was getting worse every day. "I'm in contact with another young man who I believe would do you some good to talk to." David's face contorts with unwillingness, but the doctor simply smiles. "It could help. You won't know unless you try." David sighs begrudgingly, taking the stack of papers off his desk and nodding to appease the man in front of him.

"Alright. Alright. I'll try." He huffs, thoughts weighing heavy in his mind. It was futile, and he knew it. However,, it was overwhelmingly clear how much he needed the doctor off his back. So far, this had been their second 'session', and it was inherent that David kept up a wall, almost as if to keep the doctor out - a defence. The doctor smiles at him, as if to instill him with a sense of optimism. Needless to say, it didn't work and David still felt as irked as before. The doctor dismisses him and David breathes a sigh of relief, retracing his steps back to his room. He shuts his door and stares at the papers in his hand questioningly. He hesitates. 

David reaches for the pen on his desk and bites it uneasily. Wa she really going to do this? How should he start? What should he say?

My name is David Leatherhoff and He crosses it out, tutting and throwing the bitten pen to the side. He shakes his head, tutting and shuffling to his bed, laying down to close his eyes. "Damn pathetic." he huffs to himself, tucking his arms behind his head and chewing his lip.

Thumping like a rhythmic drum bores into David's mind, setting him on edge and provoking his breath. His heart pounds heavily in his chest, almost matching the pace with the pulsation of the dark room he seemed to be trapped in. Shadows seemed to prowl around him, the tremoring chalk lines and sprawled out messages overcoming him as he turns around.

                                                                          IF?

"If?" David retorts. He speaks, but his voice is empty, as if he had never opened his mouth at all. His lips prickle and burn, a stinging sensation much like several needles working into his flesh, and his throat closes up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a door in the same style of the shoddily drawn white lines like a grade school project. He makes his way over, steps echoing uncomfortably on the hard ground that seemed to oscillate, resonating with the ambiance of heavy beats that suffocated him. To his surprise, the door opens. The lights are non-existent until he steps in and the door closes. It momentarily blinds him and his eyes begin to water. He wiped at his cheeks subconsciously with his fingers. David recoiled instantly. He brings his hand up to his face, and takes a shuddering gasp. Black blood leaks from his empty sockets, yet he can still see. He looks around frantically, the space around him now looking remarkably like a public restroom. He tries to speak, but his mouth would not open. He rushes to the sinks, peering into the mirror as his breathing quickens until it feels like one big breath at a time.

His skin is grey, eyes black and voidlike, mouth sewn shut, embroidered with the taunting word dead. He swallows hard, but chokes, and then he sees it. A hand. It's enclosed around his neck, vise-like and growing tighter by the second. The pounding in the air grows louder and louder until it's splitting his skull open, and he's spluttering. Lightning jars the lights to flash off for a moment, and he can see a silhouette of his fear stricken self in the reflection. When the lights return, David wishes he could scream. He was there, inching out of the mirror, a bloody cavity in his chest. The doppelgänger's hand slips around David's neck, draining the air from his lungs and making his vision go black. The everlasting thunder of noise grows louder still, becoming a part of him as he sobs out in anguish.

David cries out, sitting with a start at the knocking at his door. He runs a hand through his sweat slicked hair and is reassured his voice works.

"Just a second." He manages to croak out, shivering from the cold sweat and the vivid nightmare. He stands, stumbling towards the door. He opens it up to find a man in blue scrubs stood there.

"Sorry to wake you. Are you David? I have a letter for you." He holds out a white envelope, which David took with tremouring hands.

"Thank you." David replies graciously, knowing the man wouldn't understand the sincerity in his voice. He shuts the door, setting the letter down and rubbing his face with a sigh of trepidation. Was a peaceful nights sleep too much to ask for? Just one night where he felt like he wasn't being mocked... Having calmed down slightly, he sits heavily on the bed, and opens the envelope.

Hello, my name is Simon Henriksson, and my doctor advised I write to you in accordance that it might help me. Honestly, I have no idea how, as I'm already partaking in a therapy, though that isn't really working either. I don't really know what I should be writing, or even if you'll respond but.. Well, It'd be nice to have someone to talk to. I sincerely hope I'm not bothering you by doing this, and I don't want to pressure you into replying. In honesty, I'm not expecting an answer and I wasn't too keen on the idea anyways... - Simon H.

David reads the scrawled out writing, struggling on some parts where the spacing was almost absent. The handwriting was a strange concoction of cursive and shaky words laid on a slant, disregarding the lines they sat on. David rolls his eyes, supposing he should reply since he was the one who was supposed to write in the first place. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, stretching lethargically. The dull pain in his muscles had not left, but on the days where it was at its worst, the cup of unknown pills soothed his aches. Today was most definitely one of these days, and he stands up, wincing and groaning. "Holy shit." He grumbles, steadily making his way to the door. He staggered down the corridor, finding his way to the commons room and heading to the desk. He smiles weakly at the lady who asks for his name, and a brief exchange of communication gets him what he needs. A feeling all too familiar, he remembers, from somewhere clouded in the back of his mind. The lady asks if David required a cup of water, but he just wordlessly shakes his head, and swallows the drugs. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes the lady is a pretty girl, of a similar age to him.  Short, blond curls ordained her face, and she looked at him with baby blue eyes and big lashes. He doesn't let this stick with him, as he takes a moment to remember his surroundings, and hastily makes his way back to the familiar corridor - though somewhat ironic due to the maze like quality of the building. 

'Hopefully, the drugs will kick in soon' David thinks, flinching as the nerves in his body burn. He felt ill, too cold, yet too hot. He was starving, yet could not bring himself to eat. His eyes were heavy, and dark, but he felt too anxious to sleep - too restless. He lets himself reach for the pen, and furrows his brow. "Fuck it, why not?"


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really isn't as dramatic without the italics and bold to be honest. Oh dear.

Ink stained his fingertips, but that's to be expected. He'd just detailed the last of his reply, a signature. David stands, swallowing thickly at the dull ache in his legs. It felt like every inch of him had been pummeled with a baseball bat. His sweaty hands reach for the doorknob, and opens the door, leaving his room. 

Over the last month or so, David had learned to navigate the Rehab a little better, and now knew the difference in the corridors that lead around the place. He'd been managing - well, just about, but things were still the same. He walks down a once unknown corridor, stopping at a desk, and handing in the letter. 

"Thank you, David." The man stood behind the desk squinted at his nametag, but David wasn't bothered. They didn't pretend to care, and took no effort to know. He prefered it this way. Creeping nausea overcame him, as his stomach cried in pain. Dejectedly, he sighs, and nods at the man before turning away, retracing his steps until he reaches the turn off to the commons. David takes a left, and cuts through the commons until he reaches an open plan cafeteria. The stench of the food makes the nausea worse, but he feels so weak he knows he can't last much longer. Eventually, he decides on a basic sandwich, and eats it slowly. 

His stomach begins to cramp up, and he feels the sickness getting worse. He stands, abruptly, and stumbles out of the room, leaving the tray of food behind.

 

'If I can get back to my room, I'll be okay.' He thinks, clutching his stomach as unbearable pain overcomes him. His legs feel weak, and he struggles to walk. He loses his footing, and falls.

 

When David opens his eyes, everything is different. The room is black. He stands, shakily, and looks around, cursing. "Not again!" He scowls, face contorting in anger. He takes a step forward, feeling his body jerk and sway, uncertain of his weight. The room - if it could be called that - seemed to spin and warp around him, but he continued forward. Most often than not, he wouldn't get to leave until he saw what he wanted him to see. He grew nervous, most of the time these abysmal depths didn't seem to have any indication of what was there, or what wasn't. He could easily be walking into death at any moment. No floor, or walls in sight. However, he must have come to a new area, because dispersed within the blackness, were dots. Reluctantly, he follows the trail of red, not for the first time in his life, and his skin prickles with the cold heat of sickness. 

He sees them, writhing and twitching in a way nothing human could. Beaten and bloody on decaying flesh and the smell, the smell, it's disgustingly horrific. He chokes on the upcoming bile, and stumbles backwards. No gun. No axe. No safety. He turns to sprint, but they close into him, hissing and moaning in pain, and he screams as they limp towards him. Their hands are on him now, cold and clammy like death, dragging, ripping, biting into him. They're ripping him apart with their nails, the sound of tearing skin and blood hitting the blackness. He tastes the metal on his tongue and it's all too much, the pain, the pain.

God. It hurts.

It feels like they're eating him alive now, taking his flesh and consuming him. A wound is open at his stomach, and they're ripping at his organs, spilling them out onto the ground like a buffet on display. He can hardly move. They're all around him now, biting at his achilles tendon, his organs on the floor, his face. He lets out one last gross sob, feeling the blood pooling and sticking to his clothes and drowning him until it fills his mouth, his nose and blinds him. He's choking and he can't breathe.

The hands are gone. It feels like an overwhelming nothingness surrounds him. There was no noise, no groaning, no longer was he crying. Simply, silence. And darkness. There was no way to tell if it was darkness he was seeing, or his eyes had ceased to work, but it didn't matter. He couldn't move, and the wetness was still on him. But he felt nothing, he saw, he heard and tasted nothing. It was like he was the only being in existence, and space was compressing him. He had no heartbeat, he tried to swallow but there was no response. Just a vague whisper in the unknown reaches of somewhere that his mouth was dry. Whether it was his mind, or the space, he did not know. Life did not matter. Death did not matter. Nothing mattered here, wherever here was. Only right now. Whatever that may be. The nothingness. A void. He might go insane if he can feel anything at all.

Or maybe he is going insane, because he can hear it now, a murmur.

"David"

And then it's gone. The emptiness resumes. He never realised how much it swallowed him up until he knew of another, more important thing. Something else. Whatever it might be, he latches onto it. A conscious movement, though he still cannot move. He takes a deep, unmoving breath, and relaxes. 

No, no. He can't. He won't. He won't. He lashes out, he screams, he focuses every part of his being on the... the thing. 

Voice. A voice! Oh so familiar and tantalisingly close, there's a ringing in his ears, and he moves every fibre of his being into turning sound into image. Associating it with a face.

Yes, a source of mistrust, laced with hope, a longing to recover. 

Yes, a pathetic spiral downwards, but a urge to climb back up.

Yes. He will. He will regrow. He's burned, and from the ashes he will regrow, stronger. Not without hardship but with promise of better things, a new beginning. 

Yes.


	5. Chapter 5

His eyes open, and he is blinded. White light bores into him, and his eyes burn as if the very sun itself is on him. He tries to speak, but the words catch like stale bread in his throat, choking him. There's blurring shapes all around him, voices and noises of panic, and he feels a dull throbbing in his head. Forcefully, two men in the blue scrubs throw his arms over their shoulders and haul him up. The dull sensation gives way to a sharp, stabbing pain in his forehead that makes him momentarily sway, disorienting him. They speak like white noise, burning into his brain like a cattle prod on a confused animal. He jolts forwards, and he is restrained more forcefully, he stops trying. He lets them carry him like dead weight to his room and slump him on the bed. They poke and prod at him, his eyes and head, but he tunes them out, hearing nothing but the ringing in his ears now, and he shakes and shudders in pain. They open his mouth, shoving pills onto his tongue and rubbing his throat, willing him to swallow, as if he's some dog.

He doesn't care.

Because he's alive.

 

Another recovery to add to the list, but at least there's one under his belt. He sits, fiddling with said belt, after now being trusted in his own clothes. Despite all the time he's seemed to suffer through, he's not any more patient.  
"Alright, David. How are you feeling?" He asks, and David rolls his eyes unabashedly.  
"I'm fine, we've been over this, I'm okay now." His voice is thick with saliva, and sure, he's okay after the incident, but overall? He doesn't like to think about it, and so, he doesn't.  
"The time of worry is not yet over. And that is why you are here. I wish to... Discuss some things with you."  
David makes a tutting noise, pushing his tongue against his cheek, but then nods begrudgingly.  
"Alright." He leans back into the chair, and folds his arms, waiting for him to begin. The doctor takes this as a cue, and sits behind his desk, shuffling through some documents. At this point, some form of paper might as well be glued to the doctor's hands.  
"Okay. Well, regarding the incident, I've made a decision you deserve to know everything a little earlier than what is," He clears his throat, looking David in the eye with some form of unreadable expression. "seen as practical. You suffered a concussion as a result of a visual hallucination where you ended up fainting. Now, David I'd like to think I'm being pretty reasonable when I propose this, so I'd honestly like you to consider this." The man in the white coat sets down the paper, and clasps his hands down on the tabletop, making David shift on the suddenly uncomfortable wooden chair. "I'd like for you to tell me exactly what you saw then, and in exchange I'll allow you in on some key information around your case."  
David swallows nervously. Something about the man's voice had always made him anxious, and this was not helping in the slightest.  
"That sounds like blackmail, doctor." He replies, hoarsely. The man in front of him just grins, shaking his head.  
"Not necessarily, David. Think of it this way; the longer you deny these visions, the longer you will remain here. I'm here to help you, David. To make you better. So help yourself, David, by helping me."  
Suddenly deciding his hands had become interesting, David began to pick at the skin, inspecting his knuckles with close precision, and deciding he really needed to wash his hands for his sweating palms. The repeated use of his name was making him nauseous, like he was a traitor to his flesh.  
"I... I... See him sometimes. He... Follows me." He refuses to look up, and his throat is tight, like a hand constricting his airways.  
"Who do you see, David?"

His words dry up, but he wets his lips and tries to continue, already shaking.  
"This man... This... This addition... He wears my skin. He feeds off me... He won't let me go... He won't let me go!" His body is suddenly out of his control, and he feels his breathing start to unhinge, body shaking. His lips tremble, and his words refuse to form.  
"Calm down, David. It's all right." The doctor drawls, making no real effort to console him.  
"Some nights I see him. Some nights I am him... Sometimes... Some nights... I see things I don't want to. I just want to be left alone but he won't go away..." David takes a shuddering breath, tears staining his cheeks as he sobs, nails biting into his wrist. "I want him to just leave me alone! I don't want to see those things! I don't want to be him! I don't... I don't..." he trails off, shoulders heaving with the shuddering weight of his deepest fears being spilled onto the table like the sickly black tar of his most primitive fears. Catharsis washed over him, and his panicked breaths slowly quietened.  
The doctor simply nods, writing down something in black pen on some paper, and David finds it calming.  
"Okay, David. I believe this will help our sessions carry more purpose. Now, I'll uphold my end of the bargain, if you're alright to continue, that is." 

A gesture of agreement washes over David's body, and the doctor looks down at his papers. "Okay, now. You were found in the bathroom of a hospital on five thirty, Tuesday the second of April. The analysis shows you had overdosed on a type of painkiller, and your stomach was promptly pumped. You were very lucky, David. You were found with a deep gash located underneath your left eye, dangerously close to the eyeball itself. A switchblade was found under one of the bathroom stalls, covered in your blood, and from what the CCTV evidence shows, in your drug induced state, you had attempted to gauge out one of your eyes before passing out." The doctor pauses once more, locking eyes with David who was shaking again. "You were very lucky, David. The chances of you dying of a stroke were impossibly high." 

Numbly, David sits down on his bed, letting the information settle in the lines of his brain.  
The overdose.  
The infliction.  
He runs a finger over his scar, wincing. He knew why.  
His stinging eyes find an envelope, and he can't help but smile despite it all. His fingers slide under the adhesive, pulling out the letter.

Hej, David. I heard what happened, and I just want to say, I'm sorry. That sounds really rough, and it's awful you'd have to go through that. I got worried when you hadn't replied, but as strange as it sounded, I was relieved to know you're alright. How are you managing? Has it happened again? I'd had something similar happen to me in a dream, and I was stuck in some weird purgatory between sleep and consciousness. I could hear myself screaming from inside my dream, and once I'd regained my senses I found I couldn't remember any of what I'd saw.  
I apologise if it comes off as if I'm trying to only talk about me, our experiences are our own and I understand this, but I thought perhaps you'd need someone to let you know you're not lost in this. Anyways, I'm rambling again. Best to you, David - Simon H.

David finds himself relieved, yet troubled all the more with new thoughts already nestled away in his head. He'd reply soon, he knew, but not now. He was tired now, and perhaps, for once, for the first time in a long age, it would come easily.

He was right.


End file.
